


thicker than water, stronger than wine

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Families of Choice, Found Family, Good Omens Rom Com Event, M/M, While You Were Sleeping AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23659924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: Azra Fell is a ticket agent at a London Overground station. He has a desperate crush on Rafe, a handsome stranger who buys a ticket from him every day. One day he pulls Rafe from the path of an oncoming train. At the hospital, the doctors report he's in a coma, and a misconstrued comment leads Rafe's family to believe Azra is Rafe's fiance. When he doesn't correct them, the family welcomes him into their lives. And then Azra finds himself falling for Rafe's brother, Crowley.—A While You Were Sleeping retelling for the Good Omens Romcom event
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 70
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	thicker than water, stronger than wine

**Author's Note:**

> All large endeavors take a village, and this is no exception. Thank you to the goevents server for their support, sympathy, and graciousness in listening to my whining. A special thanks to anti_kate for helping me work out a couple things I was stuck on, and to summerofspock for helping me figure out who the coma victim should be. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta readers sabinelagrande, paperiuni, and especially theherocomplex, whose comments helped make this story the best I am capable of making it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content notes: injury, emergency rooms, hospitals, a person in a coma, brief mentions of parental death

Azra Fell is looking at his hands. They’re a bit pudgy but strong, with short, stout fingers. He can see the raised tracery of veins running across the back of his dark skin. He keeps his nails trimmed short and neat, and rubs lotion on his cuticles every night so he doesn’t get hangnails. He doesn’t normally spend a great deal of time looking at them, but he deep-cleaned the hob a couple days ago and forgot to use gloves. They’re peeling now, the way kids in primary would smear glue on their hands to gross each other out. He wonders if he should go to the drugstore and get some scrub, or if he could make do with a bit of kosher salt or brown sugar. 

“Hey,” a voice says, accompanied by a hand with lovely fingers pushing money into the dip. They belong to the Handsome Stranger, as Azra refers to him. He buys a ticket to the ____ London Overground station on weekdays between eight and eight thirty, and his presence is the highlight of Azra's shift. There’s an incredibly elaborate daydream Azra’s built around HS, which includes bespoke themed cocktails and dinner in a cozy, low-lit restaurant. He has not decided if dessert is best at the restaurant or at home.

"Hey yourself," Azra replies. His heart jumps a little, like it does every time HS approaches the booth.

"Good weekend?" HS asks. His accent is American, softened with years of living abroad. Azra’s never asked what he’s doing here in London, but honestly it’s more fun to imagine. Software, maybe. He doesn’t seem like a finance type. Maybe he works at Pinewood or in something boring but important like policy analysis. 

“The usual,” Azra shrugs, hoping it comes off as nonchalant. There was the hob cleaning, cooking meals for the week, inventorying his spices so he knows what to pick up at the big specialty ethnic market outside of town. It’s not a particularly exciting life, but it’s his.

“I hope that means good.” HS quirks an eyebrow, smiles a little. It’s lovely, goes all the way up to his eyes and everything. Azra appreciates that he has laugh lines. It means it’s something he does a lot.

“I’d like to think so.” Azra smiles back and hopes he doesn’t look like a dolt. He hands HS his ticket. “Have a good day.”

“You too.” 

A rush of passengers floods through his booth, and he doesn’t have a chance to think more about anything else until lunch. (It’s mujadara this week—a little boring even for him, but the gorgeous omakase the previous weekend was worth it. Definitely one for the notebooks.) 

Before he can do more than take a bite, Gabe, Azra’s boss, slides in across the table. He’s fine. A little too enthusiastic about corporate initiatives, but Azra figures that’s one of the reasons he’s moved up the ladder despite being less senior than Azra. 

“Azra!” He smiles, more widely than he needs to. His teeth are alarmingly white, almost as pale as his skin.

“Gabe.” 

“So I know we talked about you having the next bank holiday off, but something’s come up with Danielle—” He tries to look apologetic, which is even worse than when he’s being an asshole. 

“Did she and her bloke patch it up then?” It’s not intruding into other people’s personal business when said person broadcasts it all over the break room and deconstructs every argument in detail when you’re sharing a ticket booth. 

“I guess they must have, because she asked for it off. Look—” Gabe holds his hands out in an almost plaintive gesture.

Azra heaves a sigh, very deliberately and overdramatically. “I’m the only one who doesn’t have family or a partner, so I’m the most logical one to take the shift.” Azra knows how this works. It’s not that he minds, precisely (he can always put that holiday pay to good use); he just wishes it didn’t always fall on him. 

“I knew you’d be understanding.” Gabe gets up and claps him on the shoulder. It’s more forceful than Azra expected, and scatters his forkful of mujadara all over the table. “Thanks for being such a team player. I know you don’t think so, but it is something they notice upstairs, and it’ll pay off eventually.” 

Azra rolls his eyes when he hears the break room door close. He pulls a napkin out of the holder and starts cleaning up the food. 

— 

He’s scrolling through his phone when somebody knocks on the door. It’s Tracy, his neighbour from across the hall. The corridor light glints off her bottle blonde hair and her eyes sparkle under heavy, bright eyeshadow.

“I brought back your containers!” she chirps, presenting them for his inspection. 

“Thanks,” he says. “I can take them—”

“Nonsense, dear, I know where they go.” She floats past him, gauzy and not exactly ethereal, but with more lightness than one would expect from a pensioner. “It’s the least I can do after you made me that lovely moussaka.” She puts the containers down, opens a cupboard, and looks up to see neatly stacked containers just out of reach. She turns to him, hands on her hips. “Azra Fell. You moved them just to spite me, didn’t you?” 

He smiles. “No, I actually needed the space for something else. But I can put them back if it makes you feel better.” 

“Of course I’m not going to ask you to do that, but it’s sweet that you offered.” She pats him on the arm. He’s glad to see her, the way she interrupts his ruminations. (He knows he thinks too much. But there’s not a whole lot else for him to do by himself.)

“Do you want some tea?” 

“That would be lovely, but decaf or herbal if you please.” 

Azra rifles through his tea selection. There’s a tiny bit of ginger, peppermint, and licorice blend left that’s the perfect amount for two. 

As they wait for the tea to steep, Azra says, “So tell me the latest?”

Tracy smiles and regales him with the latest gossip from around the building. Mrs. Srinivasan is having some sort of drama with her begonias, and Mr. Clarkson’s dog has apparently fallen in love with a cat in another complex. Azra pours them both a cup and they sit there for a while, drinking.

“Are you going to come over and watch telly with me over the holiday then?” Tracy asks. “If so, I’d love it if you brought over some trifle. I saw some gorgeous berries at the market.” 

“About that.” Azra stares at his cup. 

“Don’t you dare tell me that horrid boss of yours talked you into working again!” As long as he’s lived here Tracy’s been his neighbour. She’s protective of him, something he finds sweet and annoying in equal measure. It’s the closest thing to love he’s felt since his parents passed. 

“There were extenuating circumstances.” The excuse sounds weak even to himself. 

“Which were…?” 

“One of my coworkers got back together with her boyfriend and she requested it off.” 

All right, he deserves the look Tracy’s giving him, the fond but exasperated one that wishes your hapless neighbour would please just get his shit together. 

“Next time, I promise. I’ll make a giant trifle just for you. And some mini sponge cakes.” 

She smiles and pats his hand. “You’re a good lad, Azra. I wish you’d lavish some of that consideration on somebody else.” 

He knows she means it out of concern, but it’s much easier when he doesn’t have to think about it. He has his life, small and quiet though it may be. He likes going out to restaurants and writing about the meals he’s had in his notebooks. He likes tidying his kitchen and rearranging it. And he likes making food for himself and sometimes Tracy. He keeps busy. 

“Well if I take up with somebody else, how will I say yes when the man of my dreams asks me on a date?” 

He means it jokingly, but something passes across her face. “Sweetheart, I’m not going to tell you any nonsense about how fortune favors the bold, but there’s a difference between waiting for things and letting life happen to you. Think about it, yeah?”

He nods. 

“Good. It’s late, you should turn in.” She pats him on the shoulder and leaves.

He rinses out the cups and the teapot, putting them on the dish rack. He gets into bed and looks up the date of the next bank holiday. It’s not that far away. He can start changing his life then.

— 

Azra looks up from his book when he hears somebody approach the booth. It’s HS. There’s a fluttery feeling in his chest and his palms have decided to start sweating. 

“They making you work today?” HS asks. A gust of wind tousles his perfect hair, and he brushes it out of his eyes. It’s dark and curls into ringlets, and Azra wonders what it would be like to get his fingers in it. Does he like it when somebody cards through it gently? Or would he prefer something harder, more aggressive? He realises he’s staring and clears his throat.

“Nah, I volunteered.” Does that make him come off like a suck-up? “The extra pay’s nice.” Great, now he sounds money-grubbing.

“Well, at least you’re getting something out of it.” He smiles, and Azra’s breath catches. 

“Who would sell you tickets then, if I wasn’t here?” Is that flirty or a bad line? Azra genuinely can't tell.

“My hero, here to rescue me from my inability to buy a ticket from the machine!” HS puts his hand to his heart theatrically and pretends to swoon.

Azra laughs. “What are you going in for?”

"It's the end of the fiscal year. Everything gets crazy trying to wrap things up. You know how it is."

Azra nods, even though he doesn't. "Hopefully you'll get a break after that?"

HS gets a wistful look on his face. "A whole two weeks off," he sighs. "I'm counting down the days."

"Going anywhere?" Azra wonders where someone like HS would take his holidays. A sunny beach? An Alpine resort? 

He shakes his head. "Just staying at home. Sleeping in and working on songs feels like all the vacation I need."

Of course he's a musician. He has a lovely voice; it must be beautiful singing. Azra wonders if he’s the type of songwriter who’s transparent in his processes, humming melodies under his breath while he goes about his day. Or maybe he’s fiercely protective of his creations, unveiling them only when he feels they’re good enough to show the rest of the world.

"I've got an open mic coming up during my time off. Maybe you should come." This smile is different: sweeter, a little entreating.

Azra thinks he might die on the spot. But he can’t, or else he won’t be able to go to HS’s gig, and that would be a right tragedy after mooning after him for this long. 

"I'd like to, yeah." He manages, hopefully not sounding like a tongue-tied buffoon.

“Great! I’ll come let you know the details later.” HS is grinning now, brilliant and blinding and all focused on him. It’s a lot.

“Cool. See you then.” Somehow, Azra manages to give HS his ticket and hold himself together just long enough for HS to disappear from sight. He paces within the small space of the booth, trying to process what just happened. He had a conversation with HS. One that resulted in an invitation to something that doesn’t involve a business transaction. If he were at home he would probably scream into a pillow, but he’s not, so he just thinks about it very hard.

He’s just about calmed down when he hears alarmed shouting from the platform. He steps out of the booth, heading towards the source of the noise. There’s a clump of people looking down at the track and he shoves towards the front until he can see. A familiar jacket and head of hair are visible. It’s HS.

“What happened?” he asks the nearest gawker.

“Dunno, he just clutched his head, then fell.” 

The whistle of the next arriving train sounds, much closer than he wants it to be. Fuck. There’s no time to equivocate, barely enough to act. He jumps into action, points at the person he’s been talking to. 

“You! Call 999.” He points to the person next to them. “And you! Make sure they call 999.” 

Azra jumps off the platform, runs to HS’s prone form. He grabs HS in a giant bear hug from behind, chest to back. The train whistles again. On the platform people are yelling and waving, trying to get the driver’s attention. 

It is a hell of a thing being on a train track, looking down at an oncoming locomotive, close enough to feel the rumble in your bones. He staggers to his feet, dragging HS with him. Nobody tells you how bloody heavy a person is when they’re not capable of supporting themselves. _This is not the way I thought I’d end up with you in my arms, mate_ , Azra thinks, a little hysterically. 

He looks around, frantic. Where can he drag them both out of the way? He spots a little cut-out under the platform. It’s not too far, and looks wide enough for two people. 

_Allah give me strength, help me save this man._ It has been a long time since Azra’s prayed. He never really saw the point after his parents passed away, given the faith was theirs, but old habits die hard, apparently. Whether it’s via divine intercession or adrenaline, he manages to haul HS to the gap and shove him into it before ducking in himself. 

He presses his forehead to the back of HS’s coat. It smells like detergent and cologne, clean and inviting. _Please be all right_ , he thinks, not sure who he’s addressing. 

The train roars past and the rush of air that accompanies it makes him tremble. He clutches HS to him, only letting go when he sees the track is clear. 

“Azra? Azra! Are you all right?” He can hear Leticia, the other agent at the station working today, above him.

He scoots out from the cut, waves. “Fine, Tish. Get an ambulance down here quick as you can. We’ve got an unconscious passenger.” 

“They’re coming already. Hang tight.” 

He sits down, his legs suddenly refusing to support him. He feels a bit faint and light-headed, despite the way he can feel the whoosh of blood in his ears and the quick, shallow breaths he can’t seem to deepen. They both could have died today. But they didn’t, and he sends a general… something of gratitude out to the universe.

For lack of anything else to do, Azra lays HS out, makes sure he’s breathing and as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. Azra’s hands tremble as he gently moves the other man around, but they become steadier.

"We'll get you sorted," Azra murmurs to him. He takes HS's hand. He might be unconscious, but Azra wants him to know he's not alone.

"Oi!" There's a pair of EMTs approaching with a stretcher. "You know this bloke's name?"

Azra shakes his head. "He's a passenger, never heard it."

"Feel around for a wallet, see if we can get an ID or next of kin."

Azra gingerly pats HS down, hopes he's not the type of man who keeps his wallet in the back of his trousers. He finds it in the Napoleon pocket of his jacket.

"Rafael Hernandez-Ybarra," he reads off the ID card. 

"Ta, mate." The first EMT nods at Azra before addressing HS—Rafael, rather. There is no response. Azra gets out of the way as the EMTs call out information about his vital signs. He's breathing, but still unconscious. They lift him onto the stretcher like he weighs nothing, and Azra wonders if he should start working out, just a bit.

He follows the stretcher to the ambulance, watches as they load Rafael in. _Please be all right_ , he thinks as hard as he can.

"C'mon then," the other EMT motions for him to get in.

"What? I—" Is this how it works? Azra has no experience with emergency medical transport.

"You saw what happened, so you're coming with us. And you look a bit peaky too. Might as well get you checked out."

"But my shift—" 

"We can write your boss a fucking note. Climb on board!"

Azra obeys, since it appears he's not getting out of this. The siren turns on and they head to the nearest A&E. 

— 

Once Rafael’s stretcher is unloaded, Azra’s left to his own devices. He watches while the EMTs and nurses do intake triage, communicating what they know and what they’ve observed on the ride over. The medical terms fly over his head but there’s no alarms or yelling, so he figures it’s probably not life-threatening. 

He leans against the wall. Apparently he’s still not quite recovered, because once he lets himself relax he nearly drops to the floor. 

“Are you all right?” The nurse at the receptionist’s desk hurries over to him. He’s young, white, much taller than Azra. His glasses are terribly unflattering, with big chunky plastic rims. His ID badge says “N PULSIFER”.

“Yeah. It’s just been a lot.” Azra is so tired. 

“Did you come in with the last patient?” Azra nods. “I think they have him situated now—I’ll take you back.” 

“Sure.” 

Mr.? Nurse? Pulsifer leads him through a series of hallways that might as well be a labyrinth. Azra follows, because he might as well. And he does want to see if Rafael’s all right. 

“So how do you know Mr. Hernandez-Ybarra?” 

Azra freezes. The sensible thing to do would be to tell the truth. _I have a sad, beyond pathetic crush on a stranger I see every day at work. There’s a completely elaborate fantasy I’ve constructed around our imaginary relationship, and none of it has any bearing on his or my actual life._

“I was going to marry him,” Azra says. It sounded much more mocking, sarcastic in his head, but apparently affect, in addition to energy, is in short supply.

“Oh! If I’d realised you were family, I would have told you to go in with the stretcher.” Pulsifer looks apologetic, but also slightly concerned, like he messed up somehow. 

Why the fuck did he say that? Azra didn’t even know HS’s name until a few hours ago. Maybe he should keep his mouth shut until he gets some rest.

They stop in front of a room, and find that Rafael is not alone. There’s a middle-aged man and woman, both white, who look like a couple judging by the way they stand next to each other. The woman has bright red hair. On the other side of Rafael’s bed are two women in their late 20s: one Latine with dark hair and eyes, the other white with a short pixie cut. They lean on each other, arms around each other’s waists.

Standing in the corner away from everybody else is a short-bearded South Asian man about Azra’s age and height, skinny and sharply dressed. He’s doing something on his phone, but also keeping an eye on what’s going on in the room. He gives Azra a searching look.

“Who are you?” The red-headed woman asks. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.” 

“I was at the station when he fell. I pulled him off the track.”

“How romantic! You saved your fiance’s life!” Pulsifer’s actually clasped his hands together, bringing them up to his mouth. He’s starry-eyed, obviously delighted to watch a scene from a romantic movie play out.

“Fiance?!” The Latine woman exclaims. Her accent is American. “Rafe never said anything about a fiance.” She pronounces it with a long A, which Azra did not expect.

“Maybe he was waiting to tell us,” the white man replies. 

“Regardless.” The red-headed woman comes over to Azra, takes his hand in both of hers. “If he’s Rafe’s fiance, then he’s part of the family. Welcome. We’re glad to have you.” 

“Er. Hello.” Azra says. How is this even his life?

* * *

Azra and his new ersatz future in-laws have decamped to the waiting area. Rafe’s room is too small to contain all of them for very long, and it appears they’ll be here for some time. An orderly came by to apologise and let them know the doctor they’re waiting on is dealing with another emergency situation. Unfortunately nobody has any idea when they’ll be done.

They stare at each other for a few minutes. Azra wonders if it would be rude to take out his phone when the red-headed woman turns towards him.

“Well then. It’s lovely to meet you, Azra, although I wish it was under better circumstances.” 

Azra blinks, confused at how she knows his name. He realises he’s still wearing his uniform, complete with nametag.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, uh—” She doesn’t have a bloody nametag on. What is he nattering on for?

“Deirdre. Deirdre Young.” She gestures to the man, who is sitting beside her. “And this is my husband Arthur.” 

“Hello, Azra.” Arthur’s smile is warm, his voice soft and kind. His hair is salt and pepper, long enough to be a little unruly. Azra feels at ease with him, although he can’t put his finger on why. 

“I’m Ana,” the Latine woman says, putting out her hand. Azra shakes it. The handshake is firm but not crushing, not like Gabe’s. 

“Beezus,” the white woman supplies. “I’m Ana’s girlfriend.” 

“Nice to meet you all,” Azra says, feeling even more awkward. It does not appear he’s going to be able to extricate himself as quickly as he’d hoped.

“So, how did you meet Rafe?” Ana asks. 

“Babe, he works at the train station. That’s probably where they met.” Beezus looks to Azra for confirmation. He nods.

“What’d you notice about him first?” Ana’s on a mission, it appears. 

“Well, his smile, I suppose. It’s lovely. I saw it and I just felt—good. Happy.” Okay, so he’s doing this. At least this isn’t a lie. And how exactly would he come clean anyways? _I’m so terribly sorry, the strongest relationship I have with your family member is selling him a train ticket to work. It’s all that nurse’s fault I’m in this mess._

“Our Rafe, he’s always had this presence about him,” Deirdre smiles fondly, squeezes Arthur’s hand where their fingers are entwined. “Like he wants to make everybody happy. He has a good heart, and it shows.” 

“Are you two related by marriage?” Azra asks. “It’s just—” He makes a vague gesture, hoping it adequately implies _I think it’s unlikely but I didn’t want to presume_.

She laughs. “Oh, we’re not related at all. He wandered into the bookshop ten, fifteen years ago?” She looks to Arthur for confirmation.

“More like twenty, duck. It was right after the pipe burst in the flat upstairs, remember?” 

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have asked!” 

Arthur smiles softly. “Just earning my keep.” Their bickering is easy, affectionate, and it makes something in Azra’s chest ache, the way the two of them fit together.

“Anyhow. He was this little scrap of a thing, all big eyes and dark hair, wandering round Soho in the dead of winter with the thinnest, saddest coat. It was the only one he had, because he’d moved from Miami recently.” Her eyebrows raise in a way that make Azra think she’s still not sure why he would have left someplace as pleasantly warm as that. “So I made him a cuppa and gave him a jumper that had been in the lost and found for ages.” 

“I told you if you were nice to him he’d keep coming back,” Arthur teases. 

“He was cold! I wasn’t going to let him sit in a chilly flat when he could do it at the shop. And it was nice to have company on the slow days. It was still new, and word hadn’t gotten out yet.” 

The orderly who spoke to them before returns, looking more haggard than before. Still no idea when the doctor will be available. Everybody’s faces become grimmer, a little more exhausted.

“You don’t all have to stay,” Azra says. “I’m happy to wait around and call you when the doctor arrives.” As he says this, he realises he’s inserted himself into their lives even more. Well. It’s not like they couldn’t use the help. 

“Nonsense,” Deirdre says. “Rafe would never let you do that, and neither would we.” 

Rafe seems to keep company with people that have a modicum of concern for others. That’s nice, at least.

“So, what you said before we were interrupted. You own a bookstore?” Azra asks. 

Deirdre positively beams. “Right in the heart of Soho, our pride and joy. ‘S one of three queer-focused bookstores in the UK. I take care of things in front, Arthur keeps the lights on, figuratively and literally. It’s a good partnership.” She looks at Azra. “If you want to stop by sometime, I’d love for you to see it.” 

It’s been a long time since Azra’s been invited out somewhere in a way that feels like an invitation to community, and it is something he didn’t realise he missed. “I think I would,” he says, and means it. 

— 

Azra comes back from a walk to find Beezus sitting outside in a little courtyard. She’s crocheting a square. He doesn’t know much about fiber arts, but he’s pretty sure the rows aren’t supposed to be lumpy like that, and there are small holes where it looks like she’s dropped a stitch or two.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

Beezus shrugs. “You can if you want.” 

He sits at the other end of the bench. “Been doing this long?” 

She makes a few more loops. “Are you asking to make conversation or because I’m shite at it?” 

“Uh—” 

She smirks. “Relax, I’m fucking with you. I’ve been trying to quit smoking and somebody said it helps to have something to do with your hands.”

“And does it?”

She puts down her crochet. “Normally, I think it might. But right now I would really like a fucking cigarette.” Despite her breezy tone, the set of her mouth betrays her concern. 

“Would you like to be distracted?” He asks. “I’m sure I can come up with something stupidly, tediously inconsequential to drone on about until you wish I’d never opened my mouth.” 

Something shifts in her gaze, and Azra feels like he’s passed some sort of test, although he’s not quite sure what the criteria were. She turns to him. “Or we could have a conversation like a couple normal human beings. Might be novel to give it a shot.” 

“I know you probably get this a lot, but Beezus is a rather unusual name.” He’s been curious about it ever since they were introduced.

She rolls her eyes, but fondly. “That’s Adam’s fault.” At Azra’s quizzical look she clarifies, “Deirdre and Arthur’s son. He’s away at university right now. I used to babysit him when he was little, and he couldn’t pronounce ‘Beatrice’. Hence, Beezus.”

“That’s adorable.” Azra is disgustingly charmed.

“At first it was just something Adam and his parents called me, but I think I grew into it. Beatrice doesn’t feel right anymore, y’know?” 

Azra nods sympathetically. “I tried going by Az for a little bit when I was younger.”

Beezus tries not to smirk and fails. “You don’t look like an Az to me.”

“It’s why I stopped.” 

“Good, because I think an Az would be a giant prat.” 

— 

Ana looks mournfully at her coffee cup. “You’d think I would have learned by now coffee outside of an actual cafe or Starbucks is invariably shit, but hope springs eternal, apparently.” 

Azra drinks his builder’s tea. It’s not his preferred way of taking it, but it is a reliable and consistent way to prepare it when he doesn’t have any idea about the quality of the establishment; which in this case is a little tea trolley in the lobby of the hospital. 

“So how long have you been living here?” he asks. Her American accent is stronger than Rafe’s.

She thinks for a second. “Oh gosh. Almost six years now?” She seems surprised herself it’s been that long.

“That’s quite a while,” he says. “What made you decide to move so far away?” 

Ana’s mouth turns wry. “Because nobody knows who I am here.” Azra must look confused, because she hastily clarifies. “I’m not in witness protection or anything like that. It’s just—my last name gives people a lot of… preconceptions in the US. It got tiresome after a while.” 

Azra nods sympathetically. “I have the opposite problem. People see my last name and don’t expect—” He gestures at his face.

Ana smirks in recognition. “Do they do the split-second surprise thing here too?” 

“It’s more subtle here, but you can definitely see it if you know what to look for.” 

She takes a sip from her coffee cup and makes a face, evidently forgetting it’s terrible. “Ech! Yeah, Rafe said it used to be a lot worse when he got here. I can’t imagine.”

“So how did you meet him? I think I should also get a chance to ask.” He smiles, hoping she knows it’s meant in jest.

She huffs, amused. “That’s fair. We met at a mixer for American expats. Don’t know who all was invited, or if it was an open event, but we ended up being the only two brown people there.” Ana’s face tells him exactly what type of crowd it was. “It’s not like we planned to sit at the bar, drink mojitos, and talk shit about the white girl wannabe Instagram influencers, it just kind of happened.” 

Azra can picture the tilt of Rafe’s mouth, the conspiratorial sparkle in his eyes as he points out yet another underage American unable to hold their liquor making complete twats of themselves. 

“We became friends after that, and at some point he took me to the bookshop. The first day there, I met Beezus.” She smiles softly, recalling the memory. “I got lucky, running into him when I did. I hope you feel the same.”

“Oh absolutely,” he lies, ignoring the twist of uneasiness in his gut. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.” 

* * *

Azra walks back into Rafe’s room after an unimpressive dinner in the hospital cafeteria. Everybody else has left, and the only noise in the room is the beeping of monitors. He sits down in the chair next to the bed.

“This is absolutely not how I thought being alone with you in a room for the first time would go.” The doctor said it would help to talk, as sometimes coma patients appear to respond to outside stimulus despite being unconscious. It feels a bit silly, but Azra pushes through it. 

“I had a whole plan and everything, you know. To charm you with my brilliant wit, impeccable taste in restaurants, and excellent home cooking. And now all I want is for you to wake up. Not just for my sake, but your family’s.” 

He fiddles with the scrap of paper Deirdre gave him. It has her and Arthur’s mobile numbers, as well as an address in Soho. “Anything you need,” she said, “or if you just want to talk.” She’d hugged Azra warmly before she left, a trace of honeysuckle lingering on his clothes. 

Arthur shook his hand, gave him a sweet, shy smile. “Rafe is like a son to us. I hope we’ll see much more of you, now that we know you exist.” 

It’s been a long time since Asra’s felt doted on, taken care of. It’s nice, but also a little painful, the way some people’s scars ache before it rains. Most of the time it’s something he can ignore—he’s learned to in the years since his parents’ deaths. But being in the proximity of somebody’s family—not biological, but family nonetheless—reminds him of what it was like to be part of one.

His phone pings and he checks to make sure it’s not from work. (He’d requested some sick leave, and was assured he’d get it, but there’s still an itch of worry.) It’s from Ana. Before she left she asked for his number, so she could send him things that reminded her of him. It’s a screencap of a Tweet that says “I just saw a TV reporter pronounce it ‘aloo akbar’ which literally translates to ‘potatoes are the greatest’.” It’s fucking terrible, and Azra laughs at its ridiculousness. It’s the first real bit of amusement he’s had all day, and he’s grateful to her for facilitating it.

“Oh. I thought everybody was gone. I can come back later.” Rafe’s brother stands at the door. Earlier, Azra saw him talking on the phone with an intense expression on his face as he walked out of the room. Now that Azra thinks about it, he never did return. To be honest, Azra had almost forgotten about him, which is probably understandable given everything that’s happened. But what’s one more new person, especially a member of Rafe’s family, after everybody else he’s talked to today?

“No, please.” Azra gestures to the chair next to him, and the other man sits down with easy grace. This close up, Azra sees how his beard accentuates the strong line of his jaw. 

“Anthony, was it?” He thinks he got everybody’s names, but it never hurts to make sure.

“Call me Crowley. I went to a school with too many Anthonys, so I go by my last name.” 

“All right.” Azra wonders what it’s like to have a name that common. He’s never met another person who shared his. “Crowley.”

"Welcome to the family and associated madness, I guess. Sorry if they came on a bit strong—they’re like that.” He says it with the fond exasperation that accompanies close familiarity. 

“It was nice, actually.” A bit overwhelming, but not necessarily in a bad way. It takes Azra a moment to place the feeling. “It reminded me a bit of Friday night dinners, everybody sitting and talking before the meal. All it needed was some aunties gossiping and little kids running around. Haven’t had much of that since my parents passed.” It’s not something he talks about, especially with people he barely knows. But it’s been a strange, terrifying day and Azra’s filters are much lower than normal.

“Sorry to hear that. Was it recent?” Crowley’s voice is sympathetic, but his eyes are still sharp, curious. Azra thinks he should feel uncomfortably scrutinized, like a bug under a magnifying glass, but it’s the opposite. For the first time in a while, he feels _seen_. 

"Seven years," he replies. Enough that he's had time to move on a bit, not so much that he feels like he has a grip on it, if he ever will. 

"Oof. That’s tough, mate. I hope having Rafe around helps." 

Azra's confused for a second, then remembers his supposed role. "Yeah. Of course it does."

Crowley smiles, laughs small and soft. It doesn't feel like it's directed at him—there's a sort of invitation to it, like Crowley would be willing to let Azra in on the secret if only he'd ask. So Azra raises an eyebrow in question.

"Rafe has a habit of picking up strays. It's how we met." 

"You're not biologically related? I didn't think so but—" It’s rude to assume, even if you think you might be correct.

Crowley shakes his head. "Blood of the covenant and all that. Rafe and I’ve been through plenty of stuff together, and we're brothers in all the ways that count. Just like all the people in this room earlier are my family." 

“You certainly don’t seem like a stray anymore,” Azra says. The others fussed over Crowley the same way they did Azra, but with more specificity. From what he could piece together, Crowley is a blogger or reporter, somehow involving plants.

"Well. It was a while back." There's something in his voice that feels forced, like he's trying to seem more unconcerned about it than he really is.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” It’s been a long time since Azra’s talked with anybody about anything more personal since, well, Rafe and his holiday plans. As much as it’s been gratifying to be fussed over, he’s forgotten how nerve-wracking it is to be around new people he doesn’t know well.

“It wasn’t wrong of you to ask, if that’s what you’re trying to apologise for.” Crowley’s voice is unexpectedly gentle, and it makes something in Azra’s chest ache. There’s something about him that’s compelling in a different way from Rafe, and it makes Azra want to know more. 

Crowley’s phone buzzes, and he makes a face when he looks down at it. “Something’s come up again. Sorry to keep drifting in and out on you like this.” 

Azra shrugs. “Life doesn’t stop just because somebody lands in hospital.” 

Crowley sighs, a little exasperated. “Indeed not. I’ve got to leave for a couple days for work, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still talk. Give me your phone.” Azra hands it over, and Crowley punches his number into it. “Ping me when you get a chance, yeah?” 

Azra nods and accepts his phone back. Crowley looks at the time again and heads for the door. “I really have to go. Don’t forget to text me.”

“Certainly eager to talk, aren’t you?” Azra means it to be light, a little teasing, but it comes out too suspicious, more wary than he wanted.

Crowley pauses and the corner of his mouth quirks up, not quite in amusement but not lacking it either. “You’re my brother’s fiance, who I didn’t know existed before today. Of course I want to find out everything about you. Rest easy, if you can.”

“You too. Good night.” 

Crowley departs and Azra stares at the empty doorway for a little bit. After a few minutes, he sends Crowley a message, for lack of anything else to do.

“Your brother’s nice,” he tells Rafe. “He doesn’t strike me as the type of person that likes hearing it, but he is.” 

A pause. “Your whole family’s nice. Lovely, really. You’re lucky to have them.” 

Something in Azra’s chest shifts at his realization this belonging is not just false, but temporary, and as soon as Rafe wakes up they’ll all know the truth about him. But even an imitation of such might be adequate, for a little while. 

He brushes away a lock of Rafe’s hair where it’s fallen over his eyes, screws up his courage to give him a brief kiss on the forehead. He heads home and gets ready to sleep. 

While he’s changing into his pyjamas his phone buzzes. It’s Crowley, returning his text. 

_Ta, angel. Glad we can still talk despite being apart. Marvelous thing, technology._

Azra blinks. _Angel?_

The reply is almost immediate. _Do you not like it? I’ll stop._

_I didn’t say that. Just confused._

The typing indicator flashes for a long time before a response finally appears. _You pulled my unconscious brother off a train track. How are you not *angel emoji*?_

Azra’s throat gets tight, and he takes a couple long breaths. Other members of Rafe’s family have certainly expressed their gratitude, but the way Crowley puts it makes him feel appreciated, guilty, and yearning all at once. 

_I guess?_

_I give people stupid nicknames. It’s a thing._ Ah. A self-deprecating type.

_I don’t think it’s stupid. It’s sweet, actually._

_*smirk emoji* Of course Rafe would find himself a soppy one._

Azra wishes he knew what Crowley suggests by that, and is suddenly, painfully aware of how little he actually knows about his “fiance”. _What’s that supposed to mean?_

More typing. _Forget about it._

_Ah, fuck. I didn’t realise how late it is. Should get ready for my trip, and also I should shut up. *moon* *sleepy face* *angel*_

Azra turns over and puts his phone on the nightstand. Hopefully things are a little clearer when he wakes up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this in the middle of January. At that time I was fully prepared to write all of it and post it in one chunk. I had a schedule and everything. 
> 
> And then *gestures vaguely at the state of the world* happened. The day to day has been difficult at times, and writing has not been a priority, even if I think about it a lot. I do intend to finish this, although when that might happen remains up in the air. Your patience is appreciated.


End file.
